


But Only I Call Him Son

by OrionLady



Series: Zaichik (Little Star) [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Trauma, Punching of authority figures, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 19:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20698907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionLady/pseuds/OrionLady
Summary: While recovering from twin bombings, the Enterprise crew uncovers falsified records. Admirals are assaulted, baklava is smuggled, and Bones ends up adopting a child. It’s all very problematic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slight AU in that I play with Chekov's age a bit. Other than that, canon applies.

Bones stared at the paper.

Read it again.

Stopped.

The world turned fuzzy. He tried moving his mouth but no sound came out.

Sure, he’d suspected something. His examination of the unconscious youth yielded some strange findings. But _this_? This wasn’t only ludicrous—it was illegal.

The file folder in his hands started to shake. Red dots seeped at the corners of his vision.

For one awful, chest crushing second, Bones thought he might kill someone.

Instead, he tucked the file under his arm and thundered into the hall. Headquarters thrummed with activity. The crowded corridors parted like butter, however, at the incensed medical officer. Young Starfleet graduates whispered behind their hands. One girl jumped away with a cry.

Leonard growled, eyes ahead.

His harsh steps made it to the admiral’s private office.

“Excuse me! You can’t get in without an appointment…” The receptionist raised a hand, but one look at McCoy’s face and she lowered it.

Bones slammed open both mahogany doors. He swooped into the office, an avenging angel with a heart rate that would’ve made his own doctor swoon.

Jim and Spock were cut off in their report of the bombing and rescue. They stood at McCoy’s puffing rage. He ignored them. Admiral Jenkins rose at a more sedate pace. He didn’t even get two words out before Bones rounded on him.

“You foul, loathsome excuse of a man.” Leonard surprised himself at how low it came out.

“I beg your pard—”

Bones slapped the file down. The admiral bristled at a name stamped on top.

“You knew,” Leonard snapped. “You were on the recruiting board then and you knew!”

“Doctor McCoy,” said the admiral. “I don’t see how any of this pertains to your patient. He’s recovering, is he not?”

Bones narrowed his eyes. “How dare you. How _dare _you pretend to care one iota about the boy you coaxed to go on an armed ship at just fifteen.”

At his side, Jim went rigid.

“The academy training is one thing,” Bones pressed, “prodigy fulfilling his potential and all that ‘benevolent’ crap. But using his grandmother’s bills to make him join the _Enterprise _crew…”

The doctor had to swallow. His hands itched to close around the admiral’s neck.

“Fifteen?” Jim echoed, horrified. Spock was unreadable, but his eyes dilated. “Starfleet told me he was seventeen about to turn eighteen, that his guardian had signed permission.”

The admiral shrugged, though he had the grace to look nervous. “His grandmother lived alone in Russia, weak as a child. I allowed Mr. Chekov to sign his own papers.”

Just when Bones was ready to lunge across the desk, Spock spoke, tone measured but unusually high enough in volume that the doctor paused.

“And yet you told both Captain Kirk and myself that he was soon to be of legal age.” Spock turned over one of the file’s pages. “You falsified Mr. Chekov’s records. Does he know this? Does Starfleet?”

Bones had little care for official policies. They had allowed a _fifteen-year-old_ to be in bombings and deal with Klingons and suffer alone and take over for Scotty.

The admiral shifted, eyes roving. “No, Starfleet does not know his true age. None do but the boy and those in this room. He is a smart lad who can take care of himself. Heaven knows he has been for years before he came to us.”

Jim had to hold Bones back. “Bones! Stop it! This isn’t what Pavel would want.”

The CMO deflated.

“Wait…” Jim’s brow knit. Then his face drained of colour. “He’s…he’s only sixteen now? He nearly died! There was so much blood.” He put a hand over his mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“You’ve broken Starfleet’s code of valour and treatment of life,” said Spock. “Along with numerous other government and custody laws—not just on Earth but other planets as well.”

Then Spock’s gaze darkened and the room’s temperature dropped.

“You abused a young teen,” the Vulcan said, checking the papers again, “by placing not only the sole responsibility for his guardian’s future on his shoulders…but your own future as well.”

“His?” Jim asked. “How?”

“Tell them,” Bones hissed. “Tell them that you didn’t expect Chekov to live through the Nero fiasco—that you sent him to the slaughter because _you _were supposed to be our assigned navigator.”

A dangerous silence filled the room. No one breathed.

Then the admiral chuckled. “It all worked out. I let him stay on for the Harrison directive too. I, as acting admiral, now have custody of the boy and all will be fine. One day he’ll look back and laugh.”

The itch returned to strangle him. Bones did the next best thing. He decked the pompous pencil-pusher across his pompous nose and broke it.

Neither Spock nor Jim lifted a finger to stop him.

* * *

_Surely I am wheat by now_.

His pulse spun at hair raising velocities and a blacksmith pounded iron in his temples. But at least he was warm. He had a vague recollection of swallowing something metallic before the world went cold. Frigid.

He could breathe too. That was new.

The floor under his tender head felt soft.

_A balloon_, Chekov decided. _I’m lying on a giant balloon_.

A strange sorrow accosted him. There was only one place he had ever experienced such safety and comfort and it was gone. Isolation, that familiar companion, made Chekov groan.

“Pavel? Son? Think you can open those eyes for me?”

Chekov’s forehead scrunched. The voice triggered images of white cloth, broad shoulders, and something that smelled of antiseptic.

“C’mon. I know it’s hard, but if anyone can do it, it’s the kid who saved James Tiberius Kirk.”

His nose tingled. The tingle stretched down his throbbing larynx. Pavel, instinctively, knew he needed to at least _try _and obey that voice.

Though it was like shoving at twin anvils, Chekov finally cracked his lids. He closed them with another groan.

“I know,” said the voice, sympathetic. “The lights probably hurt that migraine you’re nursing. You’ve been out almost a week. The rumor mill is in full gear over you.”

Hands gently removed a breathing tube. Pavel felt calloused fingers squeeze his before patting his cheek. That was nice; Grandpapa always had callouses, even after he retired as a grain farmer.

Trying for a second time, Pavel opened his eyes. The voice finally matched a face.

“Doctor McCoy?”

His warm smile caught Pavel off guard. “The last member of our infamous crew is awake. About time.”

He stood to fiddle with a remote beside Chekov’s bed. After pressing a button, Chekov slowly rose to reclining height.

“Doctor?” he croaked once more.

“Here.” McCoy brought a plastic cup to Pavel’s lips. He kept pouring until his patient had his fill. “Wonder of modern medicine, really—your punctured lung is as good as new, better even. Your trachea healed.”

McCoy retook his bedside seat. “But, alas, we can’t make new muscle tissue. You’re going to have to do that on your own and you may find yourself out of breath for the first few days.”

Chekov, staring at the wall ahead, took this in with a small nod. He remembered everything now. It came back with a warm rush to his ears. McKnight…

“Now the amount of blood you swallowed, in your stomach, _that _caused us some sleepless days. We mended the marrow of your ribs and you’d never know they had been broken.”

Setting his hands on his abdomen, Chekov poked at the healed ribs high up near his sternum.

“Before you ask,” McCoy ploughed on, “the rest are fine. Uhura required some stitches but nothing to fret over. Kirk, well, he had a mild concussion but you’d think he’d lost an arm, the whiner. Other than some record setting goose eggs and being scared half to death by a Russian who shall go nameless, yours truly is in tip-top shape. It’s a miracle, frankly.”

Chekov remembered the growl of machinery and the somersault of his gut when the blast went off.

“Pavel?”

The dark closed in on his narrow chest. He felt the air pressure press on his lungs. His eyes burned. He didn’t want to blink, didn’t want this orphaned lot to be his reality.

“Pavel!”

Chekov finally tore his eyes from the wall. At McCoy’s worried face, Chekov deflated.

“You’re here on Earth,” the doctor said softly. “It’s over, Pavel. We got you. You’re at Starfleet headquarters in the hospital.”

The doctor leaned forward and clasped Pavel’s hand. Then he sat back, elbows propped on his knees.

“As part of every patient’s assessment exam, when he or she comes in unresponsive, I look at things like teeth, bone growth, neural levels, you get the idea.” McCoy wouldn’t speak above that low murmur. “I found…let’s just say my first tip was your lack of facial hair.”

An icy blanket tucked around Pavel’s chest. He caught himself holding his breath.

“Pavel—you’ve been in here a week with nothing on your chin and blood tests showed you…show someone no older than sixteen, still in puberty. According to all Starfleet records, however, you’re at least nineteen.”

McCoy’s lips trembled, just for a blink, and Chekov looked away, at his lap. He put both hands over his face.

“Pavel, we brought this before the Federation and Admiral Jenkins has been exposed, permanently fired from government work for the rest of his life. Should’ve seen the trial.”

McCoy stopped suddenly. His hand landed in the honey curls. Pavel looked up.

“You’re free. You never have to fear that man again. Why didn’t you tell us, kid?”

Pavel’s jaw worked one way and then the other. So this was how his career ended. Foiled by a medical exam and his lack of facial hair.

* * *

“Pavel?” Bones ignored the rushing in his ears.

“I knew this day would come,” said Chekov in a dead tone. His eyes remained on a wine colored stain in the linen sheets. “I just hoped it would be when I vas older. Everyone knows now, I suppose.”

The mattress dipped. Chekov’s stain wrinkled like a geisha fan. “I’ve never seen Uhura scream like that—she had to be escorted out of the courtroom. Vulcan authorities were…I would say livid based off behavior, but they don’t show much on their face.”

“Jim, is now really the time—”

“Point is,” the captain spoke over his friend, “that we could’ve dealt with this ages ago. If you had confided in us.”

Chekov frowned. “It was the only vay! Vhat was I supposed to do? Let Babu die? I had wanted to work for Starfleet anyway!”

“Chekov! Chekov—calm down.” Jim coiled a hand around his arm. “No one is mad at you. We’re just furious that Jenkins used that as leverage to make you work in such a dangerous position so soon.”

“I knew about Jenkins being navigator when I agreed to switch,” said Pavel. “He made up my Starfleet record. He said I could either go on for him or Babu would die.”

McCoy made a strangled noise. “That bast—sorry. You knew?”

“It was the only way to keep Babu in the hospital, let alone out of debt. I already had to sell the farm.”

A drawn out silence followed. A muscle fluttered in Jim’s cheek and he exchanged a murderous look with McCoy.

“_Fifteen_.” Bones scrubbed both hands over his face, muffling a choice word. “I still can’t believe he manipulated a minor.”

Chekov’s nose wrinkled but he didn’t protest. “I vas fourteen, actually, when I signed the permission papers. Fresh with my astroavionics degree. Only three days after my fifteenth birthday I boarded the _Enterprise _with you.”

Jim didn’t even mask his swearing.

“Pasha.” Jim patted his shoulder. “Thank you.”

Bones experienced a stab of envy. Only Jim could get away with the tender nickname.

“For what?” asked Pavel, eyebrows high.

Jim ruffled the curly mop. “For saving our lives, genius. Bones and I played the dramatic Shakespearean card, thinking it was the end and you—_you_—provided our escape.”

Chekov’s was pensive for a minute, lips pursed. “I was unconscious for that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jim insisted. “I never knew that about the radiation chamber being detachable. Your brain saved us. For that I’m grateful. This time the chamber saved my life instead of taking it.”

Pavel rumbled and fiddled with something in his lap. Jim smiled.

“It was…very cold,” said the navigator at last. “Seeped through my lungs.” He shuddered.

Bones and Jim shared a concerned look.

A glow settled over them. Nurses and staff milled about, discussing weekend plans.

Most people complained about flat tires as the worst part of their day while Bones, daily, tried to swell a rising panic whenever he heard a blast on a television set. He thought of the grey weight of Pavel in his arms and his choked cries. The dichotomy was too large for anyone but Jim or Pavel to ever comprehend.

Bones finally recognized the ancient Rubik’s Cube in the boy’s lap, a gift from Scotty while the youth was out.

“I think these belong to you.” Jim produced headphones and a music player from his pocket.

Chekov sat up off the pillows. “Sank you, sir! I thought they had been lost.” He tucked them to his chest.

“Yeah, well, I played some ‘Yellow Submarine’ when your heart rate got low.”

Pavel’s ears flushed. At that sight, Bones knew he’d be okay, that his youthful innocence wasn’t complete beaten down.

Chekov shook his head and tossed the Cube—completely finished—at Jim’s face. “Very sly, Captain!”

* * *

“Time! Time!” Pale, blowing like a fish, Chekov groped for a stool.

Bones let go of his arm to slide one over. The boy sank on it.

“I just…need…a m…moment.”

“Yeah,” said Bones. “Sure.” He raised a dubious brow and turned so Pavel couldn’t see it.

“How long was zhis time?”

“Uh…” Bones checked his watch. “Six—no five. Five minutes.”

Chekov collapsed over his knees with a gargantuan exhale.

“Hey.” Bones knelt to be at eye level. “That’s three minutes better than yesterday. We even made it to the staff lounge!”

Glancing around at the coffee grounds and potted plants, Pavel sighed. “Of course. But it will take weeks at this rate.”

“Not necessarily.” Bones smiled. “I have a respiratory specialist coming in. There’s a new stimulant that you inhale, strengthens the lining and capacity of the lung sacs.”

Chekov nodded. “Like a corticosteroid?”

Bones worked very hard to hide his surprise. “Only much better. And permanent.”

He paused to examine his patient. Even with the fluffy sweater and sleep pants, Chekov’s ribs were visible above the collar. His angular, thin sternum made Bones’ heart race. The boy’s body refused to gain weight.

Weight Pavel desperately needed.

It was like a rake wearing a poncho. Sure, the boy ate a little less than most his age, but nothing alarming. In fact, the ensign loved sweets, especially anything made with honey.

Jim had been caught sneaking in baklava and squares on several occasions. Just this morning he’d enlisted Sulu. Both were found with baklava in their “Starfleet briefcases.”

Nice try.

“Ready to walk back?” Pavel asked.

Bones blinked. “That’s my line. And we can wait longer if…”

“Let’s do it!” Chekov took Bones’ elbow. They walked back.

Bones exhaled through clenched teeth.

“Doctor McCoy? Is something the matter?”

McCoy rarely floundered. His nerves jittered like piano mallets.

“You know you can call me Bones.” A hesitant smile broke through. The youth—_bless him_—mirrored it. “I’ve told you that. Jim’s told you that. I won’t be offended.”

Pavel, regaining some colour, nodded. “It’s hard to switch. It seems disrespectful. Babu taught me to call my elders by their titles or surnames.”

He went quiet, now a familiar habit to Bones. The boy leaned heavily on Bones’ arm, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Pavel, where did you usually go while on shore leave? With the farm…gone?”

The navigator thought for a minute. “I vould catch first flight to Russia. To sleep in a hospital chair by Babu. Though now…I’ll board here at Starfleet for a few weeks, I suppose.”

Bones caught Pavel by the shoulder. “I don’t think you understand. They’ve ordered us on shore leave for at least another three months, after Christmas at least, while they rebuild the _Enterprise_.”

It came as the peeling apart of a paint can in fire. Graceful, sudden, disturbing. Chekov, having made it to his room in the infirmary, grappled with the doorframe in a fierce battle to stay upright. Nurses rushed over. His eyes widened, brows knit in some inner agony.

Bones had never witnessed such a visceral moment of realization in another human being.

For all that, Pavel’s voice came out like a faulty television.

“Admiral Jenkins he…my guardianship. Now that he is gone, Starfleet can depose me. Send me into the…” Chekov shuddered. “The system. Child Protective Services. I have no control…”

Shooing away pesky nurses, Bones set his hands on his knees. “Pavel? Look at me.”

Chekov’s jaw worked. His fingers were marble.

Bones swallowed. “Please?”

The youth look up from the floor. His swimming eyes met Bones’.

“I’ve meant to tell you this for a few days. After a tense court hearing and a generous heaping of Jim’s clout, they agreed…I mean I asked to become…”

_You idiot. You’ve waited this long_. But Bones couldn’t get it out.

Chekov shook his head as if to clear a mirage. “_You_? You want custody of me?”

“I…yes.” The doctor’s voice grew solid again. “Yes, I do. Very much. You’re an incredible young man and you deserve someone who will stick around.”

Chekov stared at him. He flopped onto the edge of the bed. His head landed in both hands.

“It’s still your choice,” Bones hurried to add. “And there’s no rush to decide. They may even emancipate you if you petition for it.”

“You did this without asking me,” said Pavel.

Bones’ face fell. The quiet words were worse than any shout. “You are recovering and I didn’t think—”

“No.”

Bones froze. “What?”

“No,” said Pavel, his tone exhausted and irritated. “I am not a child.”

“I am aware of that, Pavel. That wasn’t why I kept this from you.”

“Please, leave. I wish to be alone.”

_Stupidstupidstupid. Always gotta ruin everything. This is no different than the last time someone trusted you with a family. _

“Pavel, son—”

Chekov’s head whipped up and Bones knew he had crossed an invisible line.

“_Go_!”

Bones turned and fled.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes the world sounded too loud. Obnoxiously so. Not like the comforting dampener of snow or the coy nothing of dawn over an ice covered forest.

_They all backed Doctor McCoy. He would’ve had to have recommendations from the crew_.

Chekov thought of calloused fingers. Looking out over the noisy city from his window, he put his chin in his palm. His hands shook.

_But McCoy did this behind my back. _Chekov smiled grimly. Babu and Grandpapa had always called him eleven going on eighty. An old man in an adolescent’s body.

_Besides, what do I need a guardian for? I’ll be of age in two years or so._

The shaking worsened. They all loved him like a brother, like a son.

What was he supposed to do with that?

“Mr. Chekov?” A nurse came over. “You didn’t eat your supper.”

“I am not feeling up for food. Sorry.”

The man’s gaze softened. “That’s alright. The new vaccine will nauseate you, they said. It’s past ten. Why don’t you hit the hay?”

Chekov’s nose wrinkled, but he smirked. “You’ve been spending too much time around Doctor McCoy. You both sound like cowboys.”

The nurse roared, patting Chekov’s shoulder before he walked away.

Chekov stood and went to the door. His steps were careful but confident. After two weeks, the navigator felt better.

The more Pavel thought over the crew’s kindness and protection, their willingness to fight for him, the more he had to swallow and wrestle back a hot prickle in his eye.

Even at night, the halls of Starfleet were busy, a never ending current that emptied into distant galaxies. Several people cast him an odd look, which Chekov, in his slippers and pajamas, ignored.

The fluorescent lights highlighted his thin cheekbones and wan skin. His lips stood out like smears of pink paint.

A door at the end of the hall, ajar, emitted a warm light. On a whim—a hopeless one—Chekov flattened the unruly curls atop his head. They sprung up over his ears.

_They are as stubborn as you_.

When he raised his fist to knock, it stuttered.

“Come in.”

Chekov pressed the door open and lowered himself into the only available seat, before a rickety oak desk. Hands fidgeting in his lap, he took in the raspy voiced man and empty bottle of Heineken and the fact that a stack of paperwork was pristine, unmarked.

They sat in silence. For so long, in fact, that Chekov wondered if he should leave the poor man to his obvious misery.

“Doctor McCoy…”

“Bones.”

He met the man’s eyes.

“I said it earlier. Call me Bones.”

“You really meant it?” Chekov forced his voice not to waver. “Wanting me?”

“Every word.”

Bones said it without pause or hesitation. Level yet staid. Chekov swallowed again. He felt he’d just ridden a tilt-o-whirl for the first time.

“I am sorry for my harsh words yesterday.” Chekov sat up straighter. “They were out of line and out of character.”

“Pavel, I get it. You were angry.”

“No.” Chekov’s eyes widened. “I was scared.”

“Scared?” Bones was up and around the desk in a heartbeat. “Why? Of me?”

Pavel watched the man seat himself on the edge of the desk and lean slightly to be at Pavel’s eye line.

“No,” he said. “Yes. I mean…this may come as shock but I haven’t had real…”

“A guardian,” said Bones, softly.

“Yes, real guardian since Papa died. I vas nine—ten? It’s a blur sometimes.” He avoided the doctor’s gaze. “Since then _I _have been one covering cardiograms and buying groceries and paying creditors and chopping vood and…and…”

“Pavel. Pavel, it’s alright.” Bones grasped his elbows. “You’re allowed to be reserved about such new territory. I’m so sorry for how you’ve suffered. You’re allowed to be _your age_.”

Chekov almost broke then. He searched the larger man’s eyes for deceit or mockery. He couldn’t find any, only a gruff sort of concern.

“You’re allowed to think about yourself now, and I’m not mad that you lashed out. I’d be overwhelmed too.”

“So how does this work?” Pavel asked.

Bones blinked at him. “What?”

“This.” Chekov gestured in the space between them. “This arrangement.”

Bones blinked again. “What? Sorry, wait…wait you agree to my guardianship?”

“I vas…very moved. I’m willing to give it a try. Because I do trust you, Doctor.”

“Bones.”

“Right. Bones.”

And all of a sudden, just showing on his face, Bones melted. Pavel had never seen such fondness in one person’s expression, aimed at _him_. It ended when Bones folded his arms.

He sniffed. “I’m not going to read you a bed time story, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Pavel smiled, amused and indulgent. “That’s a shame. I bet you have some good ones.”

“Don’t need you getting any more ideas about dangerous missions,” said Bones. He reached behind him for a pamphlet on his desk. “Jim and I are renting a place for us tomorrow.”

Pavel was silent. He cocked his head and read the inner city listing. “Is this…how you say…a bachelor pad?”

Bones’ lips twitched. “Yeah, kid, sure. A place to crash while we’re on this indefinite shore leave.”

“I accept.” Pavel held out his hand.

Instead of shaking it, Bones cupped it in his rough paws, ever so gentle. Pavel frowned.

“This isn’t a business contract, Pavel. It’s about us caring enough not to let you walk your life alone. You understand?”

Pavel didn’t, but he figured he’d offended the good doctor enough for one day. So he nodded.

* * *

“Ah! Mi casa!” Jim flung himself on the nearest available couch.

Rolling his eyes, Bones cuffed his captain upside the head.

“Yow! What—”

“You’re dripping.” Bones pointed to the couch. “It’ll stain the suede. We can’t very well ruin the landlord’s furniture on the first night here.”

“It’s not my fault the sky decided to vomit for the next week.”

He zipped from room to room, while Bones calmly set down his bags and hung their coats in the hall closet.

“Dibs on the big room!” Jim’s call echoed from a corner bedroom, filled with a gaudy king size.

Pavel stopped just shy of the entry rug. He eyed the stainless steel kitchen, large television screen, and crème walls. His lungs, though now in perfect health, caught.

City lights blinked behind their living room curtains and music thumped across the hall. It felt more alien than some planets they’d visited.

“Hope you don’t mind taking the spare, Pavel,” Bones called, now with his face in the oven. He examined all the appliances and free floating heaters.

“Hmm?” Chekov refocused with a jolt.

In that time, Bones had shifted to stand in front of the navigator. Pavel jerked again at seeing him so close. Bones took a slow step back.

“Pavel?” He grinned. “You wanna settle in?”

Haltingly, hesitant, Chekov steeled himself and stepped through the kitchen to the living room, eyes wide and wondering. Bones’ delighted eyes followed him the whole way.

“I’ve never lived in the city,” Chekov said, plopping his knapsack on the plush sofa. “Or such nice quarters.”

“Get used to it, kid.” Bones tossed him a set of keys. “It’s our home for the foreseeable future.”

A sudden thought gripped Chekov. Cold sweat broke out along his neck. “Can we afford this?” He rooted through his bag for a spreadsheet. “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a weekly spending budget and this might not—”

Bones snatched the paper out of his hands.

“Hey!”

“This is great work,” said Bones. He crumpled the paper and threw it to Jim, now leaning against the wall.

“Starfleet is footing the bill for all this,” Jim explained. “The only thing we’re covering is personal spending and any meals we eat out.”

Bones set a hand on his hip. “I’m more worried about why you made a budget plan in the first place. That’s my job.”

Chekov shifted, his heart pounding, and shrugged. “Just habit, I guess.”

A stunned silence fell over them.

Jim, to no one’s surprise, broke it. He clapped his hands before hooking Pavel into a playful headlock. “What’ll it be, Pasha? Chinese? Pizza?”

Bones huffed. “Here we go. Why you haven’t died of heart disease yet, I’ll never know.”

Chekov laughed. “Whatever you want is fine.”

“Oh no. It’s a Kirk house rule—”

“Technically this is a McCoy house,” Bones protested, “as it’s under my name first and then yours. Lunatic.”

“—that ensigns pick first.”

“Since vhen?”

“Since right now,” said Jim. “New apartment means new rules. What’ll it be?”

Chekov reflected later that night, over scattered boxes of pad Thai, both Bones and Kirk asleep before an old Western, that life was weird. Not bad, necessarily, but weird. He didn’t like the noise or the sleek _everything_.

At least, for now, it was calm.

Suddenly uneasy, he extracted himself from his snoring captain and trotted off to his new room. His throat felt thick.

_My first room in five years…_

Though the smallest of the apartment’s three rooms, he ran a reverent hand over the curtains, the queen size bed, jersey sheets, and the framed picture of his grandparents Bones had placed on the bedside table earlier that night.

His fingers caressed the cold glass.

“Babu,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. What have I gotten myself into? You don’t need me to change your sheets, don’t need a scrawny grandson. Does any of it even matter anymore?”

At the back of his mind, small but stinging, came the familiar thought.

_Do I?_


	3. Chapter 3

The living room was vacant by the time Chekov rose and dressed the next morning. He read the clock.

_5:48 a.m._

Rain tapped against the windows. He stood for a moment, savouring the silence. His fists clenched.

Padding down the hall, he cracked open the door for Bones’ room. It had a different layout, less Spartan than his own space. Children’s drawings adorned one wall. The doctor had rolled onto his stomach at some point, a cocoon of down and fleece. Only his scruff of hair poked out the top. Chekov shut the door and began to clean up empty boxes, sweep the floors, and put on a load of laundry.

Hours passed and Chekov grew concerned. Surely they ate consistent meals? Breakfast was the most important!

With this in mind, Pavel headed for the kitchen. A peruse of the fridge and pantry drawers left him even more worried. He bit at his lower lip.

“They forgot groceries,” he whispered to himself. “Zis won’t do.”

Mind made up, Chekov marched to the door. He patted his trouser pockets and found his keys and wallet. He counted the slips.

_Should be enough for some fruit and eggs. Oh! And of course milk for the cereal. Perhaps I could buy a package of Bones’ beloved bacon…_

After locking the door, he trundled down the stairs and out into the wet streets. Even at the early hour, droves of people milled about the tight alleys.

Chekov shivered, his breath puffing out in snowy bursts, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Droplets hung off his frizzy curls. The late October temperatures didn’t help any, a breath of ice over Pavel’s nose and ears.

Around trash can fires, unshaven faces and hard eyes tracked Chekov’s _clip-clop _through the streets. He kept his head down and wandered around for the small food mart he’d seen on the way here.

“Need a place to lay your head, boy?”

Chekov refused to make eye contact with the brawny, brown-toothed man. “No, sir.”

The man yelled something else, but Pavel spied the general store and made a dash for its doors. It sat at the corner of a narrow side street. Only once the door shut behind him did he heave a long breath, eyes closed.

Despite the store’s small size, Chekov marveled at the novelty food items and wide ethnic selection. Down one aisle he found waffle mix and in the deli, they had every kind of bacon imaginable, from turkey bacon to yak jerky.

The walk back—mercifully—proved less eventful. Chekov, however, couldn’t stop his shivering. His body convulsed in angry spasms. Every finger and toe had lost feeling.

This didn’t stop his proud grin.

_They’ll wake to the best breakfast of their lives!_

The smile didn’t even drop when he stumbled on his way up the stairs. Pavel panted slightly, balancing the two paper bags in each arm while fiddling for his keys.

“Here ve are.”

The key jangled for a moment and then gave way. Before Pavel could get two feet in the door, strong arms latched around him and yanked him inside. Chekov shielded himself with the bags.

Bones held him at arm’s length after a long minute. “Where the devil have you been? No note! No, ‘Hey, Bones, just went out for a suicidal walk in the freezing, near-winter temperatures deluge without a coat.’ What were you thinking?”

“Bones…” Jim warned.

Pavel blinked, stunned. “I—”

“And your lips are blue! Didn’t anyone ever teach you proper personal care?” Bones’ face was red, but Chekov couldn’t tell what the bright shine to his eyes signaled. The doctor’s fingers scrabbled over the navigator’s chest. “Your lungs are vulnerable!”

“Bones.” Jim finally shushed his friend with a glare. Pavel felt a heavy comforter flip over his frame. The cover scrubbed up and over Pavel’s hair, now stiff with cold. “I’m just glad you’re in one piece. You’re allowed to go as you please, Pasha. We just like some warning.”

“Oh,” said Chekov. “I’ll remember zat.”

“You’d better,” groused Bones.

“This isn’t a friendly neighborhood either,” Jim added. “A lot of thefts and…other things happen here.”

“I…” Chekov struggled. “I was going to make you breakfast.”

The older men finally honed in on the bags in Pavel’s numb hands. Bones gasped.

“It’s the most important meal of the day,” the youth finished weakly.

Bones and Jim caught one another’s eye. They shared an intense gaze. Jim set both hands on his hips.

_What is their problem? Okay, the coat thing is bad. I’ll remember to stay warm. But it’s just a fifteen minute walk! Why are they so upset?_

Chekov shuffled from foot to foot. He eyed the bags and wondered if his butter was melting. The milk would surely go bad if he didn’t put it away…

“Pavel?”

“Pasha?”

He straightened to meet their eyes. Pavel realized their expressions were troubled.

“Sorry,” he replied. “I’ll explain if you’ll just let me get these put away. Dairy spoils so easily and I was hoping to get the waffles put on in case you want some soon.”

Bones shook his head. “You don’t get it, Pavel, do you?”

Chekov dropped the bananas he was holding. He schooled his wide eyes into something contrite. “You’re right about the coat. I don’t really own one besides my hoodie. That’ll be the next thing on my list.”

“No, Pavel.” Bones sat him down at the island and took the seat next to him. “This—” He waved a hand at the groceries Jim now calmly put away. “This is not your job.”

“Yes it is,” said Pavel, positive about this answer. “There was no food, so I bought some. I vill be more responsible in future.”

Jim threw Bones another of those weighted looks.

“It’s quite the opposite,” said Bones.

Pavel drew back. “What am I doing wrong?”

Bones suddenly took Pavel’s hands, swearing when he felt how frigid they were. He gave them a brisk rub between his own. Pavel winced.

“Pavel, look at me. It’s your abundance of responsibility that concerns me.”

Chekov gave him a blank stare. Jim muttered under his breath.

Bones, his tone measured yet very, very tender, leaned forward. “We take care of _you_, Pavel, not the other way around.”

Being slapped halfway to St. Petersburg and dumped in a trash bin wouldn’t have uprooted Pavel Chekov as much as this statement did.

“Better listen to the old man,” Jim sing-songed.

“You, be quiet,” Bones barked at Jim, still massaging Chekov’s hands. “No slurs from the peanut gallery.”

Jim leaned on the counter so that his head wedged between the two. “You’ll get it, Pasha. Give us time to show you how this is supposed to work. Us brothers will do you right.”

Bones nodded. “You’ve taken care of an adult for most of your life. Now it’s our turn. You can _relax_, Pavel. Let us fogies do the worrying and finances and mothering for a change.”

Chekov bowed his head.

“Fogies?” Jim protested, and Pavel, recognizing the distraction, tried to compose himself. “Speak for yourself, Eastwood. I’ve still got the ladies lining up left, right, and center.”

“Then I suppose wearing that reindeer sweater my mother knit you won’t dampen your stud points.”

“Uhhh…I seem to have misplaced that…”

Bones snorted. “Yeah. Like I’ve never heard that one before. You’re talking to the king of homely sweater gifts.”

“And cowboy boots.”

Bones threw up his hands. “One time! I wore those to a party one time!”

“And you’ll never live it down.” Jim popped a strawberry in his mouth.

Pavel laughed, a wet sound. “I don’t understand. I mean…I do, but…”

Bones’ ran a thumb over Chekov’s flushed cheek. “When was the last time you slept in? Went to see a movie? Hung out with friends?”

Chekov blinked at him. “Slept in? But morning is the best time to do chores.”

Jim mimed a shot to his heart. “The boy doesn’t know the joys of lazing around on a Saturday! We gotta help him, Bones!”

Bones rolled his eyes. “I’ll settle for a night on the town. We’re taking you to a movie, kid.”

Jim was already on his phone. “Uhura! Yeah, it’s me! Yes, I know what time it is. Get your pointy-eared boyfriend and Scotty over to that little restaurant down on fifth. Tonight—when else do you think? Whiz kid’s turning into Betty White so we’re having a little shindig…”

“Pay Jim no heed,” said Bones. “He gets excited far too easily.”

The doctor tucked the comforter around Pavel’s bony ribs. He lowered his voice. “When was the last time you didn’t have to make a meal for someone or do taxes?”

Pavel thought it over. The last five years of his life had been bedpans and angry creditors and him trying not to break down in dingy hospital bathrooms. He found he didn’t have an answer.

“Oh, Pavel.” Bones closed his eyes. “That’s going to change now. You can be your age, okay? You can _let us _handle things.”

Chekov, almost fearful, nodded. His head spun.

“Pasha!” Jim had his hand over the receiver. “Sulu’s bringing froyo for later. Mint Chip or Rocky Road?”

Chekov cocked his head. “What is froyo?”

Jim moaned.

* * *

On a farm, one’s worst competition is the lone bull or a pesky rooster. Nothing else stands in the way of miles of empty grassland.

“Come on! We’re twenty minutes late!”

Jim led them on a dash through crowded streets. The press of people left barely a hand’s length in any direction.

Chekov, at the back of the pack, trotted to keep up. If he took his eyes off Bones’ navy coat, even for a second, he found himself lost. His heart kept racing too fast for his lungs. He gasped and hiccupped, eyes dilated in the swarm of larger bodies.

For a moment all he felt was soul smothering panic—_where eez the coat? The coat! Bones!_

He didn’t realize he’d yelled the name aloud until Bones whirled. He waved an arm. “I’m just by the corner, Pavel!”

The navigator sprinted across the street. Hover cars and trucks honked. Bones had already taken up Jim’s trail once more. His shock of dark hair kept Pavel on track.

But the _people_. For the first time, Chekov understood how small he was, how flimsy compared to the tsunami of people.

The approaching Halloween date didn’t help any. Some already wore masks, cackling at Chekov in lurid makeup of rotten flesh and hanging eyeballs.

He swallowed.

Horror of horrors—Pavel watched, _watched_, his hand stretch out. He willed it back. But his lean fingers suddenly shot forward without his permission.

And latched onto Bones.

Pavel gasped at his grip around the meaty fingers.

The doctor halted in his tracks. Pavel snatched his hand back. His breathing quickened. He licked a line of sweat from his upper lip. Pavel found sudden interest in the pavement.

Finally, after an eternity of utter stillness, Bones turned. Pavel prepared himself for the inevitable tirade.

_Just take it._

Bones reached for him. Pavel stiffened.

The doctor put up both hands and stared at him, every ounce of his attention focused on the youth. He seemed to be reading a book Pavel didn’t know he possessed on his face.

Then Bones captured Pavel’s hand and smiled. Pavel stared at their fingers.

Impossibly warm, Bones said, “Don’t like crowds, huh? No shame in that.”

He patted Pavel’s cold fingers and gave a solemn nod. “It’ll be alright. We’ll get there in one piece. I’ve got you.”

So they kept walking, having completely lost Jim but asking for directions from a friendly bar tender. Bones never let go of Pavel’s hand.

When they made it to the restaurant’s flashing neon sign, Pavel stopped the doctor.

“Pavel? What is it?”

Pavel cleared his throat and forced himself to make eye contact. “Sank you for your kindness. You have been more generous to me in the last three weeks than anyvone in my life.”

“Pavel, you don’t have to—”

“No. Please. I must finish.” Pavel took his hand back to gesture. “After my grandmother died, I thought that was it. I didn’t think I needed guardian. Maybe I still don’t need one. But I _want_ one. I vould like to make it official, on those adoption papers I know you keep in your desk.”

Bones sucked in a sharp breath. “You…You’re…?”

Pavel hadn’t even finished nodding before Bones crushed him to his chest. Though tall, Grandpapa had been frail. Breakable and leaning on Chekov. The doctor hugged like a grizzly bear, even lifting Chekov’s feet off the pavement.

It was…nice.

“I got so good at lying about my age that sometimes I fool myself,” said Pavel. “I don’t understand how to be sixteen, but I’m willing to learn.” He patted the doctor’s shoulder. “I have the best teachers.”

Bones kissed the unruly mop of hair. At last, Chekov relaxed in the strong hold.

Bones was gruff. He scowled and barked and gave more hugs. He was not Grandpapa but maybe he was alright. A new normal could be a good one too. Maybe it mattered.

_Maybe I matter._

Not for what he did, but for who he was.

Chekov felt tears on his neck and chuckled. “Bones?”

“I’ve got you, son.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written October 2015.


End file.
